


We used to be friends (but I haven't thought of you lately at all)

by Anonymous



Category: Wednesday morning 3AM - Simon & Garfunkel (song)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small piece reflecting the thoughts of the narrator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We used to be friends (but I haven't thought of you lately at all)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emei/gifts).



_“My brother was eaten by wolves on the Connecticut Turnpike.”_  
This is the first sentence of my new story. I have always thought myself as an artist, a creative person, who could have become anything but chose to become nothing. I killed a man a long time ago and went to Folsom Prison. Johnny Cash was lying by the way, you can’t hear a train coming from the yard of that place. I spent ten years in that place and got out only because I was young when I killed the man and because the evidence against me wasn’t very tight. I played my cards well, didn’t I? Got out almost like a dog from his leach.

Then I came here in order to start a new life. I met a girl I once knew, a long time ago. She was my best friend when we were just children, we played together every day after school. She was bullied at school and I didn’t stand up against his bullies because I wanted to look like a cool guy who didn’t play with girls. Now I understand what a betray it was towards her but she still wanted to be my friend, maybe because we were both so alone all the time. When she left to college, I had already disappeared. She could have become my girlfriend if I had made different choices.

I promised to call her, send her flowers, chocolate and letters, but I never did and I don’t know if she ever believed I would or if she knew I was only saying. I left her, did drugs, killed a man and run away from the cops. They didn’t like that and put my name on TV, newspapers and flyers. I’m sure she recognized me when seeing my face everywhere but I don’t know if she was disappointed in me. I’m sure she wasn’t surprised.

When I left the prison, I spend the first couple of nights in the motel and I only had my typewriter and some clothes with me. The clacking of the typewriter keys filled the room and lasted for whole night because I couldn’t sleep and the only thing I wanted to do was to write. I smoke, I drank whisky and wrote bad poetry. I was like Charles Bukowski, except for the poetry part because he never published a bad poem. I could have been Charles Bukowski but, remember this, I chose differently. I want to emphasize this because I want you to understand that I’m not a victim and I don’t need your pity. I don’t want to give you any advice but trust me when I say this is not the best way to live your life. There are better choices than those that I made and I hope you choose them.

Then I met the girl, the girl who’s still asleep on his bed. She’s beautiful and naked and her breast rise and fall as she breathes. I’m smoking, sitting on a chair and looking at her, writing these little sentences to my small, black notebook. I will never write a book, I only write a collection of sentences that would be the open sentences of a novel I would like to write. I could write a book, I have a typewriter and everything, but I don’t. Guess why? Because I choose not to.

I told you I once knew this girl who I slept with last night. I left my motel room and went to a bar and there she was, singing. She had the most beautiful voice. I sat on a bar chair and looked at her as she performed and when she stopped I walked to her to see if she would still recognize me. She called me by name and left with me to her home. She lives alone and works as a model, this girl who once was so shy and bullied. She looks tired and unhappy but I can’t give her any comfort. We sleep together, talk, smoke, laugh and we are both so tired it seems like a dream. The night seems like a serie of blurs but I know this is true because it’s still dark outside and the moon is shining high on the sky. I have watched the moon all night and it hadn’t changed and therefore I know this is true.

Maybe I should wake her up before leaving, just to say goodbye, but I don’t. There is a chance that she wakes up without seeing me here and thinks I never was here, forgets me and one day becomes happily married to a person she loves. It can’t be me so why would I stay here in her life when it obviously wouldn’t do her any good? I don’t love her but I always will and I know it doesn’t make any sense but I don’t care. The moon is giving me the only light I need know, sitting here and listening to the girl breathing, sleeping, mumbling in her dreams. She is the most beautiful woman in the whole universe.

I robbed a liquor store just a few hours after being released from prison. That was a choice I made because I can’t adjust to the society. I know they will catch me when I leave here and I know I will go back to prison, maybe forever this time. I feel like I’m watching a film where the protagonist doesn’t act like a protagonist at all but as an antagonist instead and this feels interesting. The girl will never see me again and this is my farewell. A collection of sentences, not linked to anything, just an endless amount of new starts that never lead to anything. I couldn’t make the new starts to lead me anywhere but maybe the girl will be able to do that.

The girl has pictures of James Dean on the walls. He doesn’t look to the camera, just smokes a cigarette with a smirk on his face. He wears a long jacket, just like the one I once had. Maybe I could have become like James Dean, an immortal legend, but I chose not to. I walk away from the apartment, close the door so quietly the girl doesn’t wake up and walk down to the street. It doesn’t take long before I see the flashing lights of the police cars behind my back. I raise my hands and put them behind my neck, kneel down and feel a hand on my shoulder. They have come to take me away but this is my choice.


End file.
